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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Back to School"  Sydney can't tell you much about the students she picked out, but she doesn't have to. Just the thought of returning to high school as a student—with classes, homework, and parents—makes you cold and liverish. "Tell me more about this drama teacher," you say. Ms. Johns, Sydney tells you, is a youngish woman, likely in her early to mid thirties, with long, hair and slate-blue eyes. She's got a good figure and good teeth, and dresses down in blue jeans and blue denim shirts— "Can you tell me about her as a person?" you interrupt. Sydney—looking at you through Becky Oliver's big eyes—seems amused. "What makes you think I know anything about her as a person?" "You gotta give me something more than her looks." "I though you'd be interested in that, Will." You roll your eyes. "Well, sure. But—" "Okay, as far as her looks go, I'm sure you'd like to fuck her. But you know, Daddy, you seem to like to—" "Okay, stop it." Sydney looks puckish, but resumes. "She seems nice," she says, "and the kids in class seem to like her. I didn't see a ring on her finger, so I guess she's not married, but I don't know if she's got, like, a boyfriend or anything." "How is she as a teacher?" "She seems pretty chill. She let's the class get away with a lot of shit, but plays along with it." "What did you do in class?" You feel the professional actor in you—well, in Paul Griffin—perk up. * * * * * From her description, it sounds like a typical beginning acting class, concentrating on warm-up improv techniques, mimetic exercises, recitations, and memorization. To you—to Paul—it sounds relaxed and relaxing. But Sydney also complains that the students in the class seem a little cliquish and didn't warm up to her, even after Ms. Johns separated them out into groups and put her in with one. She also worries that "Becky" is not really good enough to be in the class. So she can't give you much to go on, except a sense that Ms. Johns is attractive both physically and personally. But that, at least, would make her a comfortable entry point into the school. Speaking of which: You then ask Sydney to tell you a little more about the school itself. And that sets her off. It's all very weird. (But it's California, she sighs.) For a start, the class periods aren't numbered as "first," "second," "third," and so on, but with Greek letters. Before lunch there's (she has to check her schedule because she can't remember the names) "Alpha", "Beta", "Gamma", and "Delta" periods, and after lunch there's "Phi", "Chi", "Psi", and "Omega" periods. ("Phi, Chi, and Psy," she moans. "Do you think they could make them easier to confuse with each other?) But the really crazy thing, she tells you, is that she doesn't even have every class every day. Well, on Mondays she does: Fifty minutes of Alpha, fifty minutes of Beta, and so on through Omega. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays she's only going to have four classes of a hundred minutes each: Alpha, Gamma, Phi, and Psi. Then on Wednesdays and Fridays she's going to have the other four classes (Beta, Delta, Chi, and Omega). That, by the way, is the reason she even had Ms. Johns today: It was Friday, and she has Acting I for Chi period. As for the rest of her schedule ... Well, she digs out the student handbook and nestles up close to you on the sofa as you go through it together. She had to miss her whole first period of class because she had to huddle with the guidance counselor to figure out which "pathways" she should take. That's how everything at Rocky Beach High is organized, apparently: Students are put on "Pathways" and tested at the end of the year to see if they can shift onto a higher Pathway or have to be shifted to a lower one. So ... Well, it's all very technical, but she sums it up by telling you that in English she was put onto the "Literature" pathway, which is why she's taking Genre Literature; in Mathematics she got put on the "Advanced" Pathwy, so she's taking Statistics. In Sciences she got put into Zoology, which is technically a class for juniors on the "Biological Sciences" Pathway, but she met none of the prerequisites for the senior-level Physics or Chemistry classes; but at least Becky's Westside courses meant she didn't have to be put on a Pathway in the Social Sciences department. To meet requirements in the Finances Pathway, though, she has to take two classes which sound like bullshit to her: Personal Finances and Business History; and she also has to take an Introduction to Technology class on the Technology Pathway. Acting I and a Study Hall round out her schedule. "Thank God it's only for a semester and a half," she sighs. "And it'll be okay when I'm not Becky anymore." She kisses you on the cheek, and you pull her close. * * * * * Paul's parents call on Saturday morning, and you have to spend an hour or two pretending to be interested in talking to them, but otherwise you spend the weekend buckling down and looking for a reasonably priced apartment or rental unit in Calabasas, and you persist in your search even after Sydney suggests that Paul could simply move in with Ms. Johns or with some other person after you've converted them with a mask. The suggestion comes as an unpleasant twist, and gives you a curious and unexpected feeling, for both you and for Paul Griffin. It takes you a moment to recognizes it, and when you do, it comes as a shock: It's a sense of responsibility. Oh my God, you mutter to yourself when you realize it. I'm adulting! It's a vertiginous feeling, especially after you've put a name to it. You are a grown-up now, since you put Paul's mask on, and you are feeling it, despite your own youth and Paul's "Peter Pan" tendencies. You have an apartment and a car and a bank account— And a nearly grown-up daughter. —and you feel almost painfully conscious of your responsibilities, especially the financial ones. You are out of a job and have to get your feet under you. It's a scary feeling, but thrilling too, because it also means you have your independence. That's why Sydney's suggestion makes you queasy: It feels like the coward's way out. At the same time, though, you do see her logic. You were already planning on forcing your magical robots to support and help each other once you got the Brotherhood set up, and there's no reason not to start that help and support after you've made your first "conversion." Still, as Monday dawns without finding an affordable place in Calabasas, you feel yourself a bundle of nerves as you drive Becky to school. She notices your mood and asks you what's wrong. "I'm just trying to figure out what comes next," you reply. "We put a mask on Ms. Johns, that's what comes next, right?" She pats her backpack, which in addition to her books holds a blank mask, a metal strip, and the sealants. "But who's gonna wear it?" you ask. "You or me?" It's a question that has not been asked let alone answered yet, maybe because you are ambivalent about each possible answer. Sydney looks surprised. "You mean maybe you would put it on?" she asks. "Well, I—" "You surprise me, Will," she says, her tone turning sly. "Or maybe it's Paul who—" "Look, it doesn't mean anything," you insist, and you hate the way your face feels hot. "I'm just asking, who—" "I assumed it would be me, but if—" "Fine, it'll be you." After a long and awkward pause, during which you feel her gaze upon you, you say, "I was just thinking, you know— We settled on your acting teacher as a, um, way to get into the school and scout around. And I guess I was kind of thinking, like, you're already enrolled there, so it would make sense if it was me to— I mean, it doesn't do me any good if I'm still on the outside, and you—" "Oh, okay, I get it, Will," she says, though her tone is still amused. "That does make sense. But how are you going to make the switch?" "There at the school?" you hazard. "That might work," Sydney says after a moment's thought. "I know she has an office in the theater wing. I could ask her if you could meet her after school." "Today?" "Why, are you in a hurry?" You don't answer, because you've no good answer to give. All you know is that the frustrations of the weekend have you antsy and unsettled. At the same time, you hate the idea of shucking off Paul Griffin's identity simply because you feel his life is defeating you. After another awkward silence, Sydney says, "I'll see what I can do." * * * * * Again, you spend the day shuttling between coffee shops and rental units, but there's the extra anxiety of waiting to hear from Sydney. Her text comes at a little before two: Meet me out front and I'll tell u where to park. You reply, seeking to confirm that she's got you an "appointment" with Ms. Johns, but you don't hear back from her. She's waiting at entrance to the parent pickup lane when you pull up at a quarter to four, and hops in. "Pull out and around to the other side of the school," she directs you. "It's the teacher's lot, but you can park there." "And you're taking me in to see Ms. Johns?" "Sure. I figure you can help me out anyway." "Help you out?" "Or I can help you out. Either way, probably best that it's both of us there to handle her." Your heart is beating hard in your chest. It's coming to the point. Do you adopt this teacher—who you hardly know—as a new persona? Or let Sydney take her, while you persevere as Paul Griffin until someone else comes along? Next: "Afternoon at the Improv" |
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